


Hyacinth

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Sherlock Holmes, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shaving, Sherlock Holmes is Violet Mohels, Watson has a Smooth Leg Fetish, Waxing, mention of prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25490875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Miss Violet Mohels goes undercover as music hall performer Miss Hyacinth.PWP. Crossdressing Holmes/Watson. Smooth leg fetish. This is in the same 'verse asHand in Glove.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 49
Collections: Season of Kink, Watson's Woes JWP Collection: 2020





	Hyacinth

**Author's Note:**

> For DW 2020 Season of Kink square G-5: shaving/waxing. Inspiring Tables prompt .24: hyacinth; and DW Watson's Woes July Writing Prompt #22 [Miss Bechdel, I Presume?: See if you can create a Watson's Woes work that passes the Bechdel-Wallace Test (have two named women talk to each other about something other than a man).
> 
> [This](https://www.janesvanity.com/products/marjolaine-hyacinth-bed-jacket) is Violet's dressing gown.

Mrs. Chatham leaned closer to the young woman sitting beside her on the omnibus and said under her breath,

“I think they are, Millicent.”

“No, mother,” replied Millicent Chatham. “We should smell them if they were real. They are silk.”

Her mother frowned. “But they look very real,” she protested, then sighed, “Oh, I do so love the pink ones!”

“They cannot be real. It isn’t the right time of year for them.”

“But, my dear, in hothouses, they can grow practically anything at any time these days!”

It was Millicent’s turn to frown.

Then the omnibus lurched to a sudden stop.

“I don’t suppose we shall ever know,” whispered Millicent Chatham with some regret as a gentleman two seats in front of them got to his feet and pushed the crowd aside to allow the women in the elegant hat to exit the row.

To the great shock of the ladies Chatham, the gentleman in question turned and addressed them directly.

“They are, in fact, silk. I am deathly allergic to real hyacinths, and I assure you that if they were real, I would be sniffling and sneezing and turning as prickly as pin cushion. The hat was made by Gallic & Son millinery shop in St. James’s just off King Street, if you’re keen.”

He smiled, gallantly doffed his hat to them and then hurried to the front and hopped off the ‘bus just as it was pulling away.

Millicent shot her mother a look that said, ‘I told you so.’

Her mother sniffed and repeated, “Oh, I do so love the pink ones!”

Their eyes met.

“Shall we carry on to St. James’s, mother?”

“What a wonderful idea, Millicent!”

* * *

“You were wonderful tonight, Miss Violet Mohels, simply wonderful,” I gushed, kissing the nape of her neck. “But this,” I paused and gave the cramped, dinghy room a sweeping and disparaging glance, “is far less comfortable than your old bolt hole.”

We were standing beside what passed for a theatrical dressing table with requisite mirror, lights, stool, and array of pots, jars, brushes, rags, and sponges. The effect was tawdry in the extreme.

“Well, I am not actually the famous music hall performer Miss Hyacinth, I’m just her poor stand-in.”

“Two encores is hardly ‘poor,’ my dear.”

She hummed and made an elegant, stage-worthy reach behind her and rubbed my head. Then she leaned to one side, invitingly, and I kissed her neck, accordingly.

“And you were only standing-in so that the real Miss Hyacinth would not be murdered. I would call tonight a near perfect success. You discovered the second, hidden trap door in the stage. You uncovered the very worldly mechanical method of creating the ‘ghost’ which had been terrorizing the whole company. And you identified the person behind it all, threats, sabotage, phantom, the lot. And he won’t hurt Miss Hyacinth or anyone else, ever again.”

“You ensured the last.”

“True, I would’ve preferred a court’s justice, but…”

I let the events of the night fade from my mind as I ran my hands along the sleeve of her robe. “This is lovely.” The silk was rose pink. The lace around the cuffs and hem was cream and woven in a pattern of hyacinth stalks stretching up in delicate triangles. It was a short dressing gown, only reaching to the middle thigh, crisscrossing the front, and secured with a sash. It was lovely, far lovelier than, and in stark contrast to, her penurious surroundings. She wore matching pink slippers, and there was one stem of silk pink hyacinth on the dressing table. I realised the flower must’ve come from her hat of earlier in the day. Or perhaps it had come from Miss Hyacinth and somehow inspired the hat? I couldn’t rightly suppose which had come first.

“Miss Hyacinth gave this dressing gown to me by way of payment. She has several, she says.”

I whistled and squeezed her upper arms with both hands. I bit the back of her neck gently. “I should let you get changed, but I don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to change, John.”

What a statement that was! And I couldn’t but agree.

I smoothed my hands down her back and gripped her arse through the pink silk. “Good. Oof. My dear.” I squeezed and kneaded and felt myself growing uncomfortably stiff between the legs just looking at and feeling her magnificent posterior.

“But I am cross with you, John.”

Her petulant tone was light and teasing, and I surrendered to my role at once.

“Tell me, my dear,” I begged as I slid my hands around her waist and pressed my body to hers, hugging her tightly from behind. I nuzzled her neck, and she leaned away, exposing more skin for kisses and licks and brushes of my moustache and gentle bites. “Tell me how I’ve displeased you,” I pleaded when I’d made a right mess of one side of her neck and had switched to the other.

“I _am_ cross,” she repeated, but the words were weak, belied by the pushing back of her arse and the wriggling against the thick bulge in the front of my trousers. I ground against her by way of reply, our bodies speaking one language, our voices another.

“You told those two on the ‘bus where I buy my hats!”

One of my hands slid between the sides of the dressing gown to toy with a nipple, then other dropped to cup her between her legs. One of her hands covered this second hand of mine, urging me to fondle and rub. I obliged.

“So?”

“It’s not done, John.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. Oh!”

I’d pinched a sensitive bud between finger and thumb as I filled my palm with her hard sex. 

She whimpered and began to writhe against me. She was as eager as I was.

“So smooth, so soft, and I’m so hard.” I rubbed my face against the silk shoulder of the dressing gown. “If I promise to never do it again,” I groaned, “will you permit me the honour of burying my head between your legs?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

The rickety stool turned out to be an ideal height.

I licked her sex from base to head before realising that her attention was drawn somewhere else.

To the mirror.

I looked from the reflection, erect cock, pink silk, cream, to her eyes.

She blushed.

“Watch,” I said.

“As if I could do anything else,” she huffed as she untied the sash of the dressing gown.

I held her arse through the silk once more and set about the business of taking her cock in my mouth and sucking her hard and making her moan my name.

Suddenly, there was a bang on the door. I pulled off at once.

“I’m working!”

There was a grumble and a shuffle of feet.

I shot her a mischievous look. “You’re going back to your original profession, my dear?”

“Old Wilbur recognised me from earlier days, believe it or not.”

I licked overlapping swipes up the underside and all around her shaft before taking her back in my mouth wholesale.

“Oh, it’s obscene, John. It’s filthy.”

I bobbed. I sucked.

She heaved. She sighed.

I relished the feel of her in my mouth. I adored how she filled me. I was drunk on the clear evidence of her arousal, and I was sunk into my supplicating, submissive posture before her. I wanted nothing but to serve her, simply exist as an instrument of her pleasure.

Her hands were resting lightly on my head. She was swaying ever so slightly, but I used my hands to guide her to larger movements.

Of course, it took only moments for her to understand.

The fingers in my hair tightened to an almost painful grip, and I was no longer bobbing and sucking.

She was thrusting. And watching. I knew she was watching.

“Oh, John,” she moaned, “using your beautiful, beautiful mouth. It’s base. It’s common. It’s wonderful. Oh, my love, my love…”

When she’d spent down my throat, I pulled off gently. I gazed up her countenance, as damaged and gorgeous and enchanting as a noble galleon dashed upon the rocks.

She looked down at me through hooded eyes.

“You may do with me whatever you wish, John. And know that I will regard any measure of depravity and roughness a reward.”

I lowered my gaze and considered, and as I considered, I ran an absent hand up one of her legs.

I was started out of my contemplation by the feel of her.

Her legs.

I blinked and ran a clumsy hand up and down one and then the other. I did it again. And again. Faster. I realised from ankle to thigh, she was…

“Smooth,” I murmured. I looked up inquiringly.

She was smiling. “Neither Miss Hyacinth’s costume nor the stage lights are forgiving. I had to resort to additional measures.”

I was still rubbing. It seemed I could not stop.

“It was painful?” I asked.

“Somewhat.” That meant ‘very.’

“I love it.”

I slid from the stool, then kicked it behind me, as I fell to my knees.

And then I was rubbing her with my hands and kissing her with my mouth and rubbing my whole face against her smooth, bare, hairless, divine skin. From ankle to thigh, I worshipped her with a frenzy I could scarcely contain or reckon.

“I suppose you do,” she breathed. “I had no idea…”

“Neither did I.”

I ran my hands up to her sex and stared.

“Yes, I had to, literally, draw a line. Two of them, in fact.”

I smiled and reached for the stool and sat back down and proceeded to lick over and over and over along that line.

The wiry hair, the smooth skin.

I bit the flesh of her thighs. I rubbed my face once more against her delicate canvas. I bent to kiss her knees. She let me lift one of her legs and lick very clumsily behind her knee.

I rubbed my cheek along her calf.

All the while, I was groaning in a painful ecstasy that I didn’t not understand. The passion had taken hold of me so suddenly and so violently, I was almost frightened.

And my own sex had been ignored for so long, and the sensations produced by caresses were so acute, I wondered if I was in real danger of soiling myself like a schoolboy.

This dinghy little room was no place for what I wanted, nevertheless, I had to ask.

“Please, please, my dear, may I put my cock here?” I rubbed her inner thighs with two hands.

She opened her mouth.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“GET OUTTA THERE!”

Frustration flared to rage, and I remembered I’d come armed.

“I’ll shoot the bastard!” I growled.

“WHAT?”

Luckily, a cooler head prevailed.

“YOU’LL GET HALF, YOU OAF!” she growled. “IF YOU LEAVE ME ALONE! CHRIST, CAN’T A GIRL DO A BIT OF BUSINESS WITHOUT PAPA BUSTING IN?”

There was louder but still incoherent grumbling and more shuffling.

I rose to my feet and reached for my wallet and dropped every last note and coin I had on the dressing table beside the pink hyacinth. “Take it all. Just let me…”

“Yes, yes!”

“Oh, my dear.” I kissed her mouth, hard, demanding, but grateful, so grateful. “I love you.”

“I didn’t know…”

She dropped her gaze and gave a charmingly bewildered look at her legs.

I shook my head. “I didn’t either. My sweet Jesus, Violet, my love, my gorgeous siren…”

“Yes, yes, get on with it.”

It was awkward, exceedingly awkward, and it would have been exceedingly uncomfortable, too, were it not for the overwhelming pleasure of sliding in and out of her clasped thighs.

Needless to say, I didn’t last long.

“You have to go home, John.”

“I know. Please be safe, my dear.” I kissed her hard, as if it might be the last time. I took her in my arms and held her tight, feeling the silk and flesh and hair and breath and loveliness of her.

When I reached the street, I was reminded that I had no money.

Walking it was, then.

* * *

Holmes was waiting for me when I returned.

“How was your evening, Watson?”

“Oh, well, I got scolded and surprised and schooled by a lady,” I replied as I stowed my hat and coat. I moved towards the fire and was pleased to discover a whiskey-and-soda already sitting on the small table between our armchairs.

Beside the glass lay a single stem of pink hyacinth.

Holmes’s lips quirked in a barely-there smile. “The usual, then.”

“The usual,” I agreed. I raked my eyes up and down Holmes. He was in a dark grey dressing gown, and if I wasn’t mistaken, that was all. Bare legs peeked out from the wool as well as bare feet.

And pink toenails!

My jaw dropped. I wanted to ask where and how such a decoration had been obtained, but I dared not. I wasn’t certain what the rules were for discussing the other world in this one, and when in doubt, I chose silence.

I did, however, throw back my whiskey with record speed and slowly ease myself to the floor for a better look.

Holmes wriggled his toes.

I looked up.

He was smiling a Holmesian smile, the kind when he’d made impressive but largely domestic deduction, something about varieties of jam or the price of butter.

He was very proud of himself, and I was positively enthralled.

Despite the novelty of the toenails, my gaze trailed to his legs.

His bare, bare, bare legs.

I looked up.

May I? I asked silently.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

My hands were on those legs again, and I released a soft moan.

“Watson.”

The knees.

I licked and bit and sucked. I twisted myself and licked the backs of them.

I unfolded and lifted my torso.

Holmes’s dressing gown had parted to reveal a blessedly beautiful and fully erect cock.

My eyes flitted to the table.

I took up the hyacinth.

His eyes widened.

I teased and tickled him, backs of knees, cock, balls, toes, ankles, until he was giggling between whimpers and whimpering between giggles.

“Oh, I do love the pink ones,” sighed Holmes in perfect imitation of the mother on the ‘bus.

I burst out laughing and buried my mirth in his bare thigh. He rubbed my head.

“Oh, Watson, I adore you beyond all reason, beyond logic, beyond life, beyond God or science or anything else you can name.”

I swallowed but didn’t not look at him for fear of weeping. Instead, I sunk my teeth into him.

“Holmes, I don’t think I can be chivalrous.”

“No more you should, my dear man, no more you should.”

And then I did something monstrously foolhardy for someone of my age and station in life: I balanced precariously on the arms of Holmes’s chair and fed him my cock. I was curled over top him as he sucked, desperately hoping the whole affair wouldn’t topple over and Holmes’s teeth perform an accidental castration.

But, no, he sucked me like a whore, and I spent without incident.

Climbing down from my perch was as dangerous as mounting it, but I made it to the floor at last.

I eyed Holmes’s cock, with the hyacinth resting artistically beside it.

I spit on my palm and leaned forward, bracing myself on one side of Holmes’s chair while I reached down and frigged him with the other.

“If you’ll allow,” I began conversationally, “for an intermission for, uh, hygiene and readying, I should like to retire and, um, be taken, facing away from you.”

Holmes’s eyes flew open at this. It was rare that I desired to be on the receiving end.

“That way I can touch you,” I nodded to his legs, “while…”

“You feel up for another round?” he asked hoarsely.

“You can sod me for days, Holmes.”

His body jerked. A plaintive cry escaped his lips.

“Watson!”

When he was panting and I was cleaning him with my handkerchief, he wheezed, dreamily,

“…my dear…worth a hundred times the discomfort…If I had only known…”

* * *

I have known many carnal pleasures with Sherlock Holmes, but the two days that followed will always stand out in memory.

My hands massaging his calves, his cock filling my arse, the scene was repeated over and over. Sleep overtook me more than once with my head pillowed on his thigh. I lost track of hours. Apart from sips of water and brief trips to washstand and privy, Holmes and I devoted ourselves to fucking each other’s brains out.

Finally, I was defeated. I ran a hand along one of his legs, noting the prickly stubble. “Holmes, pray don’t take this the wrong way, but I am glad…”

“Yes, it was becoming akin to madness for both of us.”

“You, too?”

“My dear man, yes. I shall paste this,” he held up what was left of the hyacinth, a single blossom and shred of silk stem, “Into my,” he coughed, “personal index-book and find you the softest cushion on the premises and request from Mrs. Hudson the heartiest breaking of the fast she can manage.”

“Dear God, Is it morning?”

“It will be when we’ve washed and made ourselves somewhat presentable.” He groaned and made a vague wave at his lower body. “Not something I will indulge in often, Watson.” His tone was apologetic, but it needn’t have been.

“No, no, please don’t. I don’t think I can manage.”

“Indeed.” He looked at me, and his expression softened. I went to his side, and he curled his arm round me. “I never know your limits, Watson.”

“There is no limit to my loving you, Holmes.”

His eyes teared, and he nodded. He eased himself from under me, turning away, and I took the pitiful remains of the hyacinth and brushed it gently down his back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
